


We Never Happened

by paradoxaligner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Smoking, Some graphic description of blood, Swearing, Texting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Watson the Adlock ship captain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxaligner/pseuds/paradoxaligner
Summary: And that was it, a night of no significance, the outlier of his life, just him being kind. She knew that their encounter had some impact on the great Sherlock Holmes. But it didn’t mean that something would happen. Nothing happened.“Go enjoy the rest of your life. Goodbye.”He said as he flicked his newly lit cigarette, ashes fell onto the ground, and crowds were passing by since it was the morning rush of the airport. But she could only focus on his words.Nobody could say these words as heartlessly as he did.She planted one foot firmly in front of the other, and didn’t look back.[Missing scenes from season 2 to 4 depicting what happened between these two. Completed with epilogue. Unbeta. ]





	1. Karachi

When they settled down at a small motel just some miles outside the city, the adrenaline in both of their systems had already died down. The exhausted detective was fumbling his pockets while cursing under his breath. There was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, indicating his previous struggle with the robes, which has been discarded in some fields on their way here. Believe it or not, wielding a chopper for decapitation was not on his daily agenda.

Irene Adler never knew the right and honourable Mr. Holmes could swear like that. Today was getting as surreal as possible. She said nothing, just quietly followed him through the dark threshold of their small room, and closed the door behind her, all the while thinking if she was drowning in the river of Styx.

“Oh, for the love of the…”

He continued to fume, attention clearly directed at anywhere but her.

“Looking for these?”

He frowned at the pack of cigarette in her hand, as if it suddenly became his enemy. Her hand was calloused after too much friction from being chained to a rough slate in the terrorists’ dungeon. He probably noticed too, but Irene didn’t think it would occupy his thoughts for too long.

If it was four months ago, she might have spited in his face, because he was the reason of her demise, her downfall and all the torture henceforth.

But now that she had months to ponder her thoughts, Irene realized that it was inevitable, and if she was to hate anyone, it was herself.

In another words, she was utterly defeated and she accepted it despite losing her edge.

Too much irrelevant details. Terminate observation.

Sherlock shook his head to cut off his focus on her hands, then accepted her offer with a murmured thank you. Her expression remained still.

“You left it at the seat of the truck.”

The Woman took a cigarette and lit it with the lighter he handed her. Sherlock never knew she smoked, but when it comes to her, not knowing seemed to be a sort of surprise instead of annoyance. There was no obvious signs of her vulnerability, just a little shaking of her fingers, emphasised through the ashes falling too quickly. Otherwise her posture was like a stone wall, neutral, giving away nothing. The defensive mode, used only when absolutely necessary.

Again he was noticing too much of her. The tall man walked over to the window and sat down at the bed, glancing over the Islamic dome which silently decorated Karachi’s night. He could feel himself calm down, enough to sense that intense air between them started to brew all over again.

Silence grew louder.

He turned back to see that Irene was leaning against the bedside table watching him puffed out his cigarette in record time.

She just went through the most depressing time of her adult life. She’s allowed some time for break. At the beginning, being rescue was a relief, much like the relief of death in the face of endless torture. The worst times made her questioned the passage of time, trapped inside that small cell with the smell of her own body fluid.

Now, in the dim lit room of some shabby motel, her suspicious brain began its work again. She realised she actually was very confused.

If it was five months ago, Sherlock Holmes would be easier to read than a blank paper. A brag with the sexiest brain in the whole world who knew nothing of human heart. She didn’t have to touch him to know what makes him tick.

Then was then.

Sherlock stood up and stretched his long legs. Then he approached her slowly, like a predator, calculating each movement of his prey. Irene thought of the situations when in Belgravia, and nearly laughed at how the table has turned. She had nothing to lose, not anymore. She waited patiently for his next move. Tension in the room thickened, either indicating desire or danger.

He leaned in, his chin inches away from her forehead. She could feel his breath, just a whisper along her hairline. He smell of clean shave, smoke and travel. The cigarette butt held in his left hand was at its end and he threw it in the ash tray on the desk behind her. Just as Irene thought he would retreat, his right hand took a hold of her wrist which was placed on the desk.

She felt her pulse elevated.

Surely, she’s allow to react now? For the game was over and The Woman was dead six feet under. What’s left behind was this empty shell of what she used to be. So vibrantly alive. And he, Sherlock Holmes, was her Charon. Surely being here and now means he cares, just a little bit?

The detective then proceeded to catch her other wrist and held them in front of her chest. Irene parted her lips to take in some of the night’s dry air, cigarette long forgotten on the ash tray. She could see his pupil dilated, darkness swallowing the ocean blue.

She was like a deer in the headlight, couldn’t move an inch of her muscle. The tip of his nose was at her right eyebrow, his closeness nearly suffocating.

His fingers were as rough as hers.

Then, Sherlock magically produced some duct tape and tied up her hands in a matter of seconds.

Now she began to panic, struggle as he ruthlessly tighten the wrap again, face determined and focus. The cold hard truth crashed down upon her: she had no idea why he saved her. What was he going to do? Bring her in the cage of London Tower for his brother? Or disposed her as a leverage against Moriarty?

Something similar to loath could be seen in his eyes, it might as well be cruelness. She can’t analyse anything else as his body language only speaks efficiency.

“Don’t shout.”

He said, his low, dark voice vibrated in the air by her right ear. She can catch some impatience at his pronounced plosive.

Irene remained silent, knowing that if she didn’t, it wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway. Their eyes met and she suddenly understood that this was not about danger, not about lust. The former dominatrix striped off all her defence, just waiting for what would come next.

The curly haired man pushed her towards the corner of the room, and moved away all the furniture. Then Sherlock pushed on her shoulder and Irene followed his movement to sit on the ground. She leaned on the white plastered wall with her hands tied on her raised knees. As Sherlock was crouching down to be level with her, she took up the courage and said in her coarse voice:

“You know, Mr. Holmes, if you want to tie me up, all you have to do is ask.”

That seemed to break the spell, as he rolled his eyes and took out a knife from his coat pocket.

-

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, there was a bloody line on his left palm. It was cut with precision and already dripping blood as he went back to the corner of the room. As he crouched down again, the smell of rust hit Irene’s nostril like a punch in the gut. For a moment she was back in that cell, the one with bloody whips flying on the wall or dancing with her skins.

“Tilt up your chin.” He ordered, drawing her back to here and now, away from that bone chilling cell. Then he started to methodically smear his blood onto her chin, the base of her neck and some of her right cheek. With his right hand, he turned her head to the other side to cover the left of her neck. He paused for a millisecond as he saw the bruise there, already turning black and blue due to the manhandling before she was supposedly executed. But other than that, the detective acted as business like as possible. The intimacy five minutes earlier probably just her imagination.

His blood was warm and thick on her pulse point, sticking to the vein of her slim neck. She felt like being choked by an invisible hand, but pursed her lips and said nothing. In fact she couldn’t decide whether this excites or disgust her.

Sherlock stepped back when his work was done and checked if it was convincing enough. This was for fooling all her “acquaintance” and therefore harder than just messing with the 6th division intel report. He mentally scoffed at his brother’s obnoxiousness, then grabbed a burner phone on the desk.

“Smile.” She heard him said sarcastically.

When she played dead like many times before, Irene didn’t close her eyes, just stared lifelessly at a distant point, waiting for the flashlight to fill the room.

-

The brunette stared at her own reflection in the mirror as she washed the blood away. Her lips were pale, and her knotted hair needed to go. She had spent five minutes scrubbing his blood from her neck, but the sicken feeling won’t go away just yet. She changed into the clothes he prepared beforehand, and cut off her hair with a pair of scissor borrow from the motel owner.

She looked like shit but oddly felt the best in days.

This was the end of an era, an era belonged to Irene Alder, the woman who brought a nation to her knees. Why he was here was never important, just the way things go, some small mercy provided in the universe.

“Hurry up, Woman, we have planes to catch.”

Sherlock frowned at her from the bathroom door, already dressed like a causal tourist with a huge backpack and a tight schedule.

A tight schedule indeed, his obsessive brother had a team tagging his flight records, and his cover case in Bombay was solved days ago.

“Of course, the election helps, or you wouldn't even bother to go undercover amongst the terrorists?” She said matter-of-factly, checking her paperwork and the cover story. It was just for something to do, you cannot accuse Sherlock Holmes for not being thorough.

“Of course.”

Stalling was of no use to anyone. Sherlock didn’t even plan some time for sleep in his escape (not that it was surprising). Things happened, reasons are not always important, well, not in this case anyway. Irene was perfectly aware of all of this.

The morning light sieved through from the window, causing everything to glow yellow. In the distance, bells had run and sounds of Fajr could be heard. Everything was just as business like as he liked. The detective lifted the backpack over his shoulder, watching her picked up all the luggage. His posture spoke haste and Irene understood, she really did. There were friends waiting for him in London, routine excitement of solving murder. In saving her, he had redeemed his conscience.

On the way to the airport, he sat at the back of the taxi along with her. After some time of silence, he said:

“Whatever extract plan you have for yourself, now is the time to execute them.”

“What makes you think I have any left?”

He just lifted the corner of his mouth, pay no heed to her response. Then he turned towards her, in all seriousness.

“Don’t go back to your old business.”

“What? Are you jealous?” She couldn’t help herself, and she wasn’t willing to promise not to misbehave so easily.

“Because you and I both know what happened the last time you went back in the game. And now, there’s no protection left.”

His tone was chilling and deadpan as if he was stating the facts.

_But you protected me._

She didn’t bring herself to say those words, just nodded and bit her lips to prevent anymore words from destroying her dignity. The rest of the way was consumed by weariness.

And that was it, a night of no significance, the outlier of his life, just him being kind. She knew that their encounter had some impact on the great Sherlock Holmes. But it didn’t mean that something would happen. Nothing happened.

At the entrance of the airport, she didn’t know what came over her, but Irene took a hold of Sherlock’s dark blue sleeve and said quickly:

“Come with me to Islamabad.”

The consulting detective just give her a questioning look that made her want to bury herself then and there. _He wouldn’t understand anyway, remember?_ Irene cursed herself and started to wonder whatever happened to just a simple line of thank you. Well her gratitude sure had an odd way to present itself.

“Go enjoy the rest of your life. Goodbye.”

He said as he flicked his newly lit cigarette, ashes fell onto the ground, and crowds were passing by since it was the morning rush of the airport. But she could only focus on his words.

Nobody could say these words as heartlessly as he did.

She planted one foot firmly in front of the other, and didn’t look back.


	2. Tel Aviv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set Post-Reichenbach. The Hiatus AU where things go south in a record speed.  
> Hope you enjoy! And please let me know what you think in the Comments!

Chapter 2 Tel Aviv

 

When she stepped out of the apartment elevator, she breathed in the salty air of the Middle Sea and knew that something was wrong. Call it instinct or sixth sense, whatever you like, danger was lurking around the corner. And Irene Adler was no stranger to danger.

She mentally scolded herself for not carrying the purse with her Glock pistol. It was just that kind of day, was it? The hallway lighting was not too bright, leaving the further end unfocused. Everything was making her skin itched. How could she become so careless that she was followed to the place where she lived?

While pretending to look for her keys, she gripped the small handle of her knife kept between the layers of her purse and walked calmly towards the door.

Suddenly someone grabbed her shoulders from behind, setting off every alarm in her body. The attacker’s height gave him some advantage, but Irene responded by shoving her elbow backwards, first in his ribcage, then when he let go of her a little she hit him in the nose.

“Fuck!”

The man’s voice rumbled in the hallway, no doubt in pain. But then, it was vaguely familiar. Her attention slipped for a second remembering whose voice she had heard. The next minute her slim throat was caught by the tall man and she was shoved against her own door. The former dominatrix could feel his bony hands loosen when she proceed to give a kick in the direction of his stomach. He stepped back and bent over in actual pain, growled:

“Dammit, Woman!”

She was shocked, and stopped resisting all at once. He let go of her and tried to catch his breath. As he retreated in the light, his pronounced cheekbones revealed his identity.

“Couldn’t you fucking knock like a normal person?”

Sherlock was thin and pale, with some scrubby peeking out of his chin. She might have seen some change in his hair colour but could not be sure. There might be some attempt of disguise, but whatever he used, he discarded it on the way here. When his shallow breath slow down a bit, the late detective gave her a false smile.

Eight months ago, this man not standing a meter away was reported suicide through jumping down from a hospital. She saw the footage on BBC world and couldn’t forget Dr. Watson’s heart-broken statement.

Irene opened her mouth, but couldn’t decide on what should be the question. _How did you survive the fall? How did you defeat Moriarty? How did you find me?_

“By fucking magic.”

He answered her impatiently, what she wanted to ask has already crossed his head a thousand times.

Irene frowned and just as she wondered what comes next, she looked down and saw his left hand covering below his ribcage.

The detective was bleeding in the flank area, deep crimson blossoming on his shirt, making it stick to the skin. And all the sweat on his forehead, the hoarse of his voice and the paleness of his lips, had an explanation.

Irene shoved her keys into the keyhole franticly, not sure about whether he was stable and didn’t want to take any chances. She led him into her bedroom while sharing his weight on one side, then let him fall on the mattress. Surprisingly he didn’t resist, not that he had the strength to do it, but it should mean that he was seeking refuge or else he wouldn’t be so cooperative.

She can feel his body heat through the shirt, slightly higher than normal, indicating a fever. He groaned when sitting down on the bed, but held up the cursing and lied still.

After cutting his shirt, the woman can see that it was a penetrating wound. The exit was quite large as if the bullet turned around inside his body. Blood was still leaking out but not at a rapid pace, so hopefully the internal organs were intact.

She got some alcohol for disinfection and dressing out of the cupboard but she ran out of antibiotics. So she took some painkillers and went back inside her bedroom. He was unmoving, and she was pretty sure that he was clenching his teeth to stay awake.

“It’s just a low-grade infection. Have you got any morphine?”

“A little bit, not enough for more than twenty four hours.” She thought about all the report on his medical history. “Certainly not enough for you.”

When she took his left arm, Irene can see the needle hole inside of the elbow. She thought for a moment, then turned to his right arm to inject. With some drug inside his system, Sherlock visibly relaxed on the bed and sighed, letting her clean his gun wound. Blood stain covered her sheets, probably hard to wash off.

Two years ago, that night, the smell of his blood came back to her in full force. It seemed to be her fate to deal with his blood all the time.

“Are you awake? Sherlock?” She asked in a whisper. He was still for so long that she had already finished the dressing, but infection was still a big problem. At least his fever didn’t spike.

He hummed, indicating his consciousness, as Irene moved close to the head of the bed, watching him carefully.

The supposedly dead detective blinked hard, and then tried to sit up.

“What are you trying to do?”

Anger couldn’t help slipping into her voice, does this man think he was not human at all?

“Sorry to bother you and thanks for the morphine.”

“Sherlock Holmes, less than half a meter away from me, there are ropes that could bind you to this bed.” She threatened. To which he just shrugged, then grimaced for the movement.

“The bleeding has stopped and I feel fine. They would track me here if I stayed.”

“That would be the painkiller talking. Give my hiding place some credit.” She used to have confidence in her small apartment on the rim of Tel Aviv. _Until now._ Irene thought, she should be somewhat angry at the pale man lying on her bed. But the situation meant that she couldn’t. Well she never thought this would be what happened when he slept in her bed for the first time.

“Okay, you don’t owe me now, is that what you want? To repay the debts?” He all but snarled, and raised his voice through annoyance, obviously not used to not getting his way. _Or just lacking in human connection for too long._ Irene thought about the state she was in at the beginning of her “exile”. Maybe that’s the common side effect of faking your own death.

“You are having a fever. I am out of antibiotics.” She bit her lips, stood up and then added: “I’m glad you chose to find me.”

He tried to say something but couldn’t find the strength for it. She turned the light out, and found he was already asleep.

-

Sherlock woke up the next day with cold sweat all over his body and found Irene sitting just outside the bedroom by the kitchen table. Her thick raven hair was around her shoulders, just like she was at Baker Street. Relaxed and in control. She was fumbling with the lens of a camera, from the looks of it, quite skilfully.

“Never knew you could do photography.”

“After all, you barely knew me at all.”

She did not look up to see his expression, just replied in that airy tone. It was the fact, they both knew it to be true. Sherlock fell silent for a moment, as she set aside her camera, thinking that he was asleep again. But he was just watching her, still like a statue, contemplating something. When the tall man saw she had looked up, he tried turning on the bed. Instead he groaned, it seemed that the bleeding was not stopped completely.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s fine.” He eased out the crease between his eyebrows, but the tense voice gave away the pain.

Wordlessly, she went near him and pulled away his hands, apparently the dressing was still leaking blood, but it was better than last night.

“Rest did you good, but not good enough.”

“I need to get going.” He said, suddenly stubborn. “In about fourteen hours…”

“In about fourteen hours out there you will die of infection, Sherlock.”

“Oh fuck, don’t you get it? He knew someone’s tracking him! I don’t have time for…”He weakened from the shouting, throat turning dry from lack of moisture. Irene sighed and turned to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When she got back he passed out again.

-

“Godfrey. Come in.” She greeted as she opened the door, unaware that the doorbell woken up the patient in bed once again.

From his angle, Sherlock could see that the tall man called Godfrey had sunny brown hair and pair of deep eyes. He gave the former dominatrix a worried little smile and slipped inside quickly.

“My god I thought you were the wounded one. Are you okay?”

Godfrey Norton asked as he lay down some supplies. “

Irene nodded, and tilted her head sideways, “He’s a…friend.”

If the pause was suspicious, the legal consultant of international energy company didn’t say a thing. Their history made it difficult for using ‘friend’, after everything that happened. Although, it was obvious that no words can describe the complication between them.

(She thought about ‘saviour’, but there’s about 75 percent possibility that Godfrey overreacted.)

But she trust Godfrey, enough to tell him her true name, though little voices in her head told her off all the time.

3 months after meeting Godfrey Norton, she was just watching TV when news broadcast his disgrace. Stepping into Moriarty’s trap, slandered and framed. It was like watching herself lost all the chips and world crumbling around her.

But she didn’t thought of jumping off a rooftop. Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street detective with a funny hat, left the world with a heartbreaking note.

She saw the message, and just blinked. That morning she lit her first cigarette in six months and texted everything she got on the Moriarty network to Mossad with a burner phone. Then she kept on working her job as an analyst, kept photography. Life goes on. Because the romantic detective story by Dr. Watson had ended, just like Irene Adler’s ended in the desert of Karachi.

“Could you do me a favor? Just watch him and make sure he don’t leave this bed, please. I had to get antibiotics.”

Norton looked at the sleeping man and the bandage across his torso and lifted his eyebrow: “Irene, is he in some kind of trouble?”

“I could have used the handcuffs but he’s probably too good at getting out of them at this point. Don’t worry I will be quick.” The Woman smiled a little, ignored his question all together. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheeks, then grabbed the keys and went out determinately, without a word of goodbye.

Godfrey Norton felt confused and honored at the same time and then turned to see the growling patient who was woken by the slamming of the door.

Sometimes it also felt like he did something unforgiveable to have earned so much time with these high IQ adrenaline addicts. “Mate, you are in really awful shape.”

He saw blood on the sheets when the detective turned over. It was leaking from the dressing. Obvious even to the untrained eye that it’s just a matter of time before he passed out or went into shock. What could Irene do anyway, antibiotics, bandages? Playing nurse wasn’t going to be enough anymore, unless she had a medical team hid somewhere behind these drawers. Godfrey reached for his phone inside the pocket and dialed for first aid. No matter what trouble he was in, being dead sure wouldn’t solve it.

“Stop it!” The pale patient suddenly lifted his tone which surprised him to dropping his phone. It was just frustrating to face this stubborn son of a bitch who got Irene into some underground mission.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?! Or it’s just fine for you to bleed in other people’s house? ”Godfrey said as he picked up his phone.

“I. Am. Fine. This, of course, is a mistake. I should have been gone by now.” “From the state you are in, I’d say you couldn’t go anywhere without an ambulance.” “Call the ambulance, and you will condemn her.” Sherlock forced out the words through his teeth. This lawyer standing by his bed side was just some obstacle, some contingency in his plan.

“But I can’t just watch you die in front of me?”

“Then turn around.” Norton just shook his head, apparently stubborn.

“Do you know what would happen to her if I was found here? Do you want me to count?!” The frown between the lawyers’ eyebrows got deeper by the minute. Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. Frankly he didn’t even know why this stranger care about him.

“If you were me, you would’ve done the same in a blink of the eye.” Norton thought about it. Just as he turned around, Sherlock took out a needle somewhere and stabbed it on his thigh. Before he even had time to protest, his brain felt dizzy and darkness swallowed his vision.

When Irene finally came back, what’s left was just a pool of blood on her mattress and the anxious pacing in the kitchen.

The legal consultant turned when he heard the keys, clear brown eyes filled with guilt and hesitation. He opened his mouth as if trying to get the words out, then shut it again, ruffled his hair instead.

She stood there in shock, and waited for the desperation to fall upon her.

“Let go, Irene.” Godfrey said with exhaustion in his eyes.


	3. Amman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the last time, they did not say goodbye.

Framed, lens adjust the focus, and then shoot to capture. Precise, simple and mind-numbingly beautiful.   
Ironically, she was even more concerned after the gun shot incident. The chill on her spine when she learned of his death was now replaced with a new feeling. It’s more like she was this faint little flame and the blood on her sheets just snuffed her out.   
Because everything in the news was like a rouse, the note, the exaggerated stand-off, the tears of friends and family (not that there was many). The TV screen acted as a barrier, making every little detail seemed surreal, like a weird ending of some hero’s adventure, waking of a dream.   
But the rusty blood stain in her apartment was real, so real that it might as well kill her instead.   
That fateful week she looked up and down in Tel Aviv, every corner of a street, every black surgeon and drug dam, but there were no sight of him. Irene wasn’t even sure it was a good thing or a bad thing.   
She tried not to think about him instead, tried not to think about how she ached to touch his feverish cheekbone in the small hours, or how his hands, clasped in hers once upon a time, were so boney these days. A dream must perish, whether it was a nightmare or not.   
The Woman once again settle back into her routine, accepting occasional job offers that do not require so much travelling.   
She was in no rush to humiliate herself.   
Three weeks after their meeting, a chance helped Irene take a trip to Jordan for some new contract. She was on the way to the ancient part of Amman city when she looked through the aperture to see if an urban view could be captured. Then she noticed a face too pale for the Mediterranean sunshine.   
The detective wore the same kerchief in red and white squares as his companions. His beard was so thick that it hid half of his face and the brown contacts hid his pale eyes which would give up his cover in a heartbeat. But Irene would know that cheekbone anywhere. She was sure it wasn’t some trick of light to make her see the consulting detective in Baker Street.   
She wrapped her scarf around her face, and followed quietly. It seemed that they are heading towards the on the hillside. Every corner they turned, less and less people were on the street, which was very apparent due to the white paint on the walls. She was not sure how long she could follow them and not noticed. As the two men lead the detective to a right turn, Irene spotted the disguised man was at gun point from the thick robes attached at his waist. They seemed to be heading towards the residential area on the mountains. There were less and less people in the streets and The Woman was not sure how long she could stay on their trail unnoticed. Just then, as they took another turn, she saw that the once detective was held at gun point.   
Between the two of them, Irene Adler wasn’t sure who the one most capable at attracting trouble was.  
“Vatican cameos.”   
Just as he heard the code, he moved suddenly, turned and knocked out the gun pointing to his head. Everything was just like years ago in Belgravia. Irene took down her scarf and strangle one of the assaulters. The one on the left pulled out a gun but the bullets he fired in hurry landed on the stone wall behind The woman, buying her the time to push them into a turmoil. Meanwhile the third one who held a gun at Sherlock tried to help his companions by throwing a punch, but was then hit hard on the back of his head by the detective himself. He was out cold while the other two finally untangled themselves as Irene took their guns they ran quickly down the street. She noticed that Sherlock pointed his gun at them, but didn’t pull the trigger, so she said nothing as well. What’s left was the one lying unconsciously on the ground.   
“Woman, what are you doing here?!”He growled like a wounded beast, bearing his teeth.   
“Here’s a reminder: you were slowly bleeding to death the last time I saw you.”  
She glared at him as he ignored her completely to try and toll the unconscious attacker along the street corner. He hissed when reaching down, an indicator that proved her suspicion.   
“I don’t even want to know you used what to stich your wound…”She murmured, and tried to help him toll the body, but was dismissed with a wave of his hand. So instead she followed him patiently and hoped her anger wouldn’t rise up with her uncertainty. Now that it’s obvious that he was up and about (not to mention still keen in making trouble), she should have been content to leave. But it was a weird feeling that made her stay.   
Finally he stopped when he found a car with the trunk open at the end of the street which might be a final resting place reserved for his resting. With a grunt he hauled his kidnapper up into the trunk. Then he straightened himself, took off the kerchief and glanced at the silent woman behind him.  
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He looked at her up and down, then told his deduction, “ for example, the Colosseum site and some boring meeting that’s due in half an hour’s time? She held both her arms and narrowed her eyes：“I’ve got time.”  
Detective shrugged and opened the back door of the car, then pulled out a can of gasoline. He poured it on the unconscious kidnapper, waking him up. The smell of metal and gasoline filled her nostril as she squinted but Irene was curious to see what would happen next. Sherlock spoke in Urdu by the man’s ear, from the limited vocabulary Irene acquired, she could tell there were some threatening and questioning involved. He was asking for a man’s name, but the pawn clearly had no idea. This man he was tracking obviously had the same ability as Moriarty to hide behind other petty criminals. Maybe the same insaneness as well.   
He slammed the trunk shut with a hard “thump”, cleared his hands, apparently annoyed and frustrated. She couldn’t help but wonder if the number of needle holes on his left arm has increased. But it was none of her business, so she kept from pulling his robes to find out.   
“This is not what I count as professional detective work.”  
The bearded man just shrugged and started to leave, before saying: “Mycroft’s men would deal with him anyway.”  
Ah, Mycroft, of course. Irene lifted her eyebrows and stared silently at him. It was all a scheme designed by the Holmes brothers, what could have go wrong? A vigilante who faked his own death to do good around the world, if only John could hear about this! She bet the next New York Times best seller would be this story.   
He suddenly paused his step and turned to look at The Woman. She stood there watching him in return and held her arms.   
“You are not as safe as you imagine.”  
And therefore she shouldn’t contact him ever again, even if the last time she saw him, it was a life and death situation? The late Irene Adler found it so ridiculous that she wanted to laugh, because it just made no sense that Mr. Holmes was still capable of offering such “friendly” advice.   
“What I’ve been through isn’t what keep us meeting these days.”  
She knew what he was doing, as she knew that Moriarty’s criminal network could not be rid singlehandedly. The seed of a consulting criminal has been sown. He helped those who were evil to stick together. A persuasive demon indeed.   
And Sherlock Holmes probably was very suicidal.   
She found herself frustrated now. It was an unwelcomed feeling, frustration. Well let it be said that side effect of joining the side of the angels do exist.   
Irene walked towards him, lifted her right hand as if trying to touch his cheekbones, then thought better of it and let it dropped again.   
“You look like you need help.” She said instead. She didn’t say that she wanted to help or she had the power to, though it was all true.   
“As you can see, I’ve never been so fucking great in my entire life.”  
Sherlock’s eyes followed his every move and the brown pupils kept reminding her of his disguise. It wasn’t the same as all those years ago in Baker Street. Now it was something completely strange to her. And she couldn’t figure out for now. Disguise is always a self-portrait.   
In the end he blinked, turned around and started walking.   
“Sherlock,” She called,“ Tell him. John, I mean. Give him some hope……”Give yourself some hope. She meant to say, but was interrupted rudely.   
“You shouldn’t be here. This is no longer your game.” He straight up ignored her words and snarled, cold and distant. From his barely contained expression, the subtext was don’t pretend like you care.   
“So are you.”  
Because this has gone from a game to a completely different level.   
Her voice was cold, and even angrier. God knows why she didn’t ask about the reason he left that day so determinedly, about why he saved her. She was ruined by him, and she had confidence that in this process of self-destruction she managed to clench to a part of the famous Sherlock Holmes too.   
It seemed that caring was not the same as communicating like a normal person.   
Exile drawn out her patience. Who was he to command her on what risk she should or should not take.   
Long silence in sue.   
“We are even. You don’t owe me anything, go back to your happily ever after with Norton.”  
Like the last time, they did not say goodbye.

3 months later, Irene Adler agreed the proposal of Godfrey Norton.


	4. Watson Solved the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One could always find breadcrumb trails. And for our clever army doctor, traces were never hard to spot.   
> (This chapter takes place across 4 seasons of Sherlock, it followed the timeline so I think it should not be very confusing)

“So you are telling me, that within mere two hours of me being gone, you solve the code to that troublesome camera phone, and guarded national security?”  
The detective just nodded, sitting in his armchair.  
John can’t help but frown, wondering how to get to the bottom of this. By gods he didn’t even know a case has happened. What was odder was that his friend didn’t seem to be in the mood for bragging his deduction. Normally, John was sure he would want to punch his best friend in the face for talking too fast by this point.   
Of course, everything about the Irene Adler case has to be so different.   
“Okay, at least tell me which numbers did she pick as the code?” The army doctor asked as he tried his best to prevent himself from wincing.   
(To him, this seemed a little unfair: as the official blogger of Sherlock Holmes the web detective, John was sure he had every right to the details of Irene Adler case. Or the fans would throw a fit.)  
As he threw the question at his best friend, John could swear that he saw the little wheels inside Sherlock’s head turning. Options: lie, play dumb, ignore, or tell the truth. John just had to figure out what incentive could get him the last option.   
“Not numbers.”  
“Come again?”  
“She chose four letters.”  
The former army doctor folded his arms and waited for the explanation.   
“S H E R”  
The detective closed his bedroom door behind him, leaving his friend to piece together the truth.   
\------------  
Three years after that fateful night, and it’s Christmas again. By now John was a married man and his best friend was shot.   
Mary drove the detective back to Baker Street, leaving John to pick up his things. The roomful of flowers had already been cleaned out by the nurses. He looked around then noticed the card on the cabinet.   
And a single rose, faded, beside the card marked with “W”.  
For a second, John was just mad that faking one’s own death seemed to become a common practice.  
For some, the experience may repeat.   
No, wait, that’s just not possible. Rose, probably from Janine then. Janine, the (supposedly) first girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes.   
The doctor held up the card and saw that the back was empty. But inside the fold, someone wrote:  
Stop getting shot.  
There’s no name.   
He was tired of this. If he as an ordinary person believed anything, he took complete confidence in the ability of Mycroft’s secret service for determining a woman’s death.   
Of course, except for being an excellent doctor, John Watson had a secret identity (that Mary was sure that everyone knew already).   
A hopeless romantic.   
So that’s why he took one of the dry out petal and stuck it between the card. And if he slipped the card into that drawer with the camera phone in 221B, Sherlock didn’t notice it.   
John would beat the truth out of him if he dared to complain anyway.   
\-------------------  
Later, when he and his wife (a secret assassin now) tried to follow Sherlock and the dog Toby, John thoughtfully asked:  
“Sooo…Janine? She’s been a tool for solving the case all along?”  
Oh, right, did John mention that his friend was now officially a murderer?  
“John Watson， the way your mind jumps around would count ”Sherlock said, face blank, clearly interested in Toby’s activity over the topic. Mary looked up from playing with the precious little girl in her arms, and observed the conversation with keen.   
“And you, Sherlock Holmes, are probably just enjoying quality time with your dog under false pretense of a case.”   
This made Mary laughed, while still following the puppy at a quick pace.   
“You know, the day after you do the urine test at Molly’s lab, we found her at the Baker Street？”  
“Oh this is getting more and more interesting. Baby, did you remember your Aunt Janine?” Mary rocked the little girl in her arms, who blinked her big eyes in confusion.   
“Okay, what I’m trying to say is, you can’t lie to me. It was real tenderness I saw in your eyes when you looked at her. It’s the same kind of look you gave Rosie. ”John announced his theory proudly while watching his best friend’s every move. Mary, on the other hand, didn’t buy it for one second and was on the verge of mocking the situation. (There’s no way the detective fell for her opportunist friend, it’s just against a woman’s instinct.)   
“Aw, thanks for the compliment on my acting skills. Drop by Baker Street next time with my Academy Award. ”  
Sherlock was just in a good mood today: there’s an interesting case with a promising lead, two of his best friends were holding their precious little girl following him and there’s even a dog. Hence, Sherlock didn’t get off the topic immediately.   
“Janine, she reminds you of ‘The Woman’, doesn’t she?”  
“Come on, Toby!”  
Well, this was downright weird now.   
“Because I’ve noticed? Eh, her way of talking, you know, ‘Bad boys？’ ‘ Only I know what you like？’”  
“Oh no, next time I hang out with her, I’ll look her in the face and think about her terrible flirting skills.” Mary complained, then handed their daughter to her husband carefully, biding some time for the detective.   
Toby took a sharp turn around the corner as Sherlock became more excited. Mary knew for a fact that the high functioning sociopath’s focus has shifted from John’s topic to something much more fascinating, but John persisted.   
“Em, it’s just that, she’s fine, like Irene Adler minus crazy.”  
They avoided the name for half a year now, and John waited for the detective’s sarcasm. But it didn’t come. Sherlock seemed to miss his words entirely, Mary mouthed “tell me everything”.   
\--------------------  
“If my deduction is correct, you have to tell me the truth, okay? ……Happy birthday. ”  
He was really mad.   
John Watson wasn’t sure which was worse, the stupidity of this man sitting in the armchair or the fact that The Woman still took an interest in him after all this time.   
The Mary in his head bantered about “Posh boy loves the dominatrix.” Mimicking the tone right after he told his wife about the epic story of how Sherlock Holmes was beaten by a woman. A tone just like she was vibrant with life.   
An hour later, they were sitting at some teashop and enjoying a piece of coffee cake. Candles were (mercifully) left out of the equation. To agree to celebrate his birthday, a great compromise had been achieved and the army doctor just didn’t think he can push his luck.   
“You saved her of course? I’m not even surprised at this point. The case you said you worked in Mumbai always felt suspicious to me……”  
Sherlock forked a bite of cake and mumbled some praise for whoever thought of the idea for combining caffeine with sugar rush.   
“You didn’t answer me, before, what’s the pack between you two?”  
“When my brother said she was banished from English soil, he was serious.”  
“So you’re trying to convince me that nothing happened apart from texting?” John sighed. Based on the knowledge on his best friend, it’s probably the truth.   
“……Why must something happened?”  
John rubbed his forehead and pinched his temple as he gave up the mission to rebuild his friend as a human being.   
\------------  
As they were cleaning up the bombed Baker Street, John thought about something. The overwhelming near-death experience by Eurus still left trauma on his mind, but at least now, with Rosie secured in his arms, John could look back on that day with cooler head. Sherlock was picking up burned documents of his case files, dusting them to see if there’s any salvage value. John cleared his throat thoughtfully: “Hmmm, ridiculous.”  
His attention was still with his daughter, but still mumbled: “Sooo…She’s married? You know, The Woman and the coffin marked ‘I love you’.”  
“What?” The curly haired man hadn’t even looked up, still cleaning up the desk by the front wall of the room in an annoyed manner. (He was already quite when Mrs. Hudson gave up the task and named him the living room cleaner yesterday.) There was barely any desk left to be honest, just a drawer or two here and there in the living room. Its contents were nowhere to be found. At first, John didn’t notice anything strange with the detective’s behavior, but then it dawned on him that the curly haired man was looking for something as he walked around the room in an attempt to clear up the mess.   
John sensed something underneath, so he handed the rattle-drum back to his daughter and pursued the topic:   
“When you were solving the identity, you said that the coffin was for a lonely unmarried woman. Then you eliminate Irene Adler, so she’s married then?”  
“It’s funny how you mention it, I’ve always wondered why didn’t Eurus went to her. Had to ask her the next visit.”  
It’s no secret why that the detective’s psycho sister chose Molly. She was the most innocent of them all, an honest friend who regrettably never remained a really meaningful part of the game but as a powerful pawn. Well if the playing chip were The Woman, Mycroft would hang up the phone without a blink of the eye.  
If it was Greg having this conversation, he would no doubt be reroute to the topic of Eurus. However, the technique was completely useless to John.   
“She were still texting you after getting married?”  
Sherlock suddenly stood up and went into kitchen area, picking up broken glass instruments along the way. John stared at the debris of the desk, then the revelation came.   
There was once a Blackberry camera phone and a white card with dry-up rose petal inside that drawer. In the explosion, the item did not survive. If there’s any chance, the clean-up group probably took care of it too.   
He did not keep asking, it all seemed a bit pointless now. 

Next day, detective’s phone sighed its signature sigh. It startled Rosie who was playing with jig puzzle and she blinked at the direction of the phone.   
Doctor Watson hid his smile behind the newspaper he was reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is not my first Adlock fic, and originally posted on a Chinese site for this years’ Valentines’ day celebration. But then this one keeps screaming in the back of my head (and I might as well admit it: this is what happens when I don't want to study.) So, here you go, my first posted fic, hope you enjoy!  
> btw English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I made. Feel free to correct me in the comments!


End file.
